


April Fool's Day

by SiriuslySherlocked



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: April Fools' Day, Comedy, Cute, Fluff, Funny, Humor, Jokes, Kissing, M/M, One Shot, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Sherlock Being Annoying, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots, Sherlock's Violin, Stupidity, light johnlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 10:25:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19207471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SiriuslySherlocked/pseuds/SiriuslySherlocked
Summary: John learns the hard way that Sherlock Holmes takes April Fool's Day very, very seriously.





	April Fool's Day

It all started with a water balloon.

 

John had been sleeping peacefully. He had gotten to go to bed early that night for the first time in a while, and he was finally getting some well-deserved rest. He sighed softly into his pillow, shifting over a little bit, and the next thing he knew he was soaked in freezing water, half awake, only able to hear the sounds of cackling laughter coming from somewhere nearby.

"What the--" John muttered, not even knowing how to react. That was Sherlock's laughter, he could tell; not only because no one else lived with them, but because that laugh sounded so mischievous, so playfully _evil_ , that it couldn't have been anyone else. Well, maybe Moriarty.

Sure enough, he saw Sherlock in the doorway, hardly able to breathe or even stand up he was laughing so hard. "Yo-your _face_ \--" He wheezed out, and burst into another fit of laughter.

John was very confused, and very angry. "What the fuck was that for? What did you even _do_? And  _why_?" He demanded, shivering and trying to warm himself up, but could do very little now that his entire bed was soaking wet.

Sherlock took a moment to catch his breath and try to regain his ability to speak, and then looked up. "April Fool's Day, John, surely you should know that."

"What?" John said, squinting. Yes. That was right. Yesterday had been March 31st, he remembered because he had repeatedly had to write down the date on the research Sherlock had been doing on a current case. He hadn't even thought about it. He didn't think he would  _have_  to. He thought the days of childhood and college kids and the yearly fear of getting repeatedly pranked were long gone. Apparently  _not_.

"Oh. Right. So,  _why_  exactly are you dumping water on me for April Fool's Day when you're a full grown adult?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Oh please, I'm hardly an adult. Besides, April Fool's Day is a fun little exercise for me, I can come up with increasingly clever pranks to unleash on my prey."

John rolled his eyes. "Oh, yes, a water balloon. _So_ very  _clever_."

Sherlock smirked. "Oh don't you worry, I have plenty more in store for you."  
"Fantastic," John mumbled.

* * *

John tried to find a way to get out of the flat, planning to spend the entire day as far away from Sherlock as possible, but he found that somehow, every time he tried to call over a cab, they all mysteriously ignored him. After trying for fifteen minutes, he began walking down the sidewalk, scowling. He had the feeling this was somehow Sherlock's doing. He had no idea how he'd have managed it, but he hardly ever understood how Sherlock worked. For all he knew, he could've turned the entire fucking area against him to all collaborate on Operation Prank John.

 

He wandered over to a coffee shop, far away from their flat (he wanted to reduce the chances that Sherlock would have contaminated everywhere nearby with pranks), and walked inside. Everything seemed normal. There were other customers there, sitting down, working, chatting with their friends or partner. He went up and ordered a cup of tea, specifying that he didn't want any sugar, and he stood aside to wait. A few minutes later his tea was ready, and he took it to a small table for himself, thinking this had been a good idea of his. What a simple solution. Just get far, far away from 221B Baker Street and keep busy until the day was over. He took a sip of his tea, realizing he hadn't really brought anything to do, no books or anything, and then he made a face. There was sugar in his tea,  _lots_  of it. He knew he had said very clearly not to put any sugar. Stupid barista. He went back up to the counter. 

"Hi, sorry, I ordered tea with no sugar in it."

The barista looked at him with confusion. "No sugar? Name is... John Watson?" She said, looking at the most recent receipt. 

John nodded. "Yes, no sugar please."

The barista still looked confused. "You know, someone called earlier today saying something about a John Watson... All he said was that someone named John Watson might come in today and he liked loads of sugar in his tea."

John looked at her blankly. "And you don't have a clue who it was?"

"No sir, we don't see the names of the callers on the phone, only the number."

John sighed, although it came out as more of a growl. "Well, thanks anyway." He turned on his heel and marched out of the shop, even more annoyed now. What, had Sherlock indoctrinated the entire  _city_ with his ideas on how to prank John?

Fine. He'd just sit out on a bench for the entire day. Maybe he'd go and get a book somewhere and sit down on a bench. If Sherlock hadn't taken all the fucking books out of every store in the nation and covered every bench in wet paint or something, that is. 

Sighing, John crossed the street and began walking in the opposite direction, hoping to find something to occupy himself for the rest of the day. He had only walked a few yards when his phone started ringing. He picked it up. "Hello?"

"John, come as quickly as you can, it's Mrs. Hudson, she's hurt!" It was Sherlock.

John rolled his eyes. "I'm not falling for it, Sherlock."

"No, really, I know you have no reason to believe me but please, you're a doctor, she's unconscious, for once I don't know what to do--"

John narrowed his eyes. Sherlock sounded like he was close to tears. "Wha--slow down--she's unconscious? Did you see what happened?"

"N-no, but I heard a loud thumping sound, so she must have fallen down the stairs," Sherlock whimpered. "She seems to have hit her head badly, and her nose is bleeding and won't stop."

John still didn't entirely believe him, but it did sound serious. Besides, if he was telling the truth, he would feel absolutely terrible if he didn't go to help. "Alright, I'll be there as soon as I can," He mumbled, hanging up and beginning to run back towards the flat. Out of breath by the time he got there, he yanked the door open and ran inside, where he found Sherlock pacing back and forth and fumbling with his hands nervously in front of a Mrs. Hudson apparently unconscious on the floor. "John, thank god," he said. "Please, make sure she'll be okay."

John nodded, kneeling down beside the woman and examining her. "Pulse and heartbeat seem fine, she's breathing... You said her nose won't stop bleeding? It doesn't look broken, though..."

Sherlock nodded, chewing on his lip. "All those tissues got soaked when I tried to stop the bleeding."

"Well, nothing seems to be broken, so I suppose the best we can do is wait," John said. "If she doesn't wake up in a few hours we'll see if she needs to be brought to a hospital."

"Oh I'm fine, dear," Mrs. Hudson's voice said.

John whirled around to see Mrs. Hudson standing up, brushing off her clothes, and grabbing a tissue to wipe off the "blood." He turned back around, scowling at Sherlock.

" _You_ ," he said. "I'm  _done_  with you."

Sherlock was wiping the forced tears from his face, grinning. "Well unfortunately for you,  _I'm not_."

"I'm not coming back into this flat until tomorrow," John said. "I'm not going to succumb to this immaturity of yours."

"Oh feel free to try," Sherlock said, still grinning.

John glared at him, marching upstairs and snatching the book he had been reading from his room, stomping back down the stairs with it. "I'm leaving," he said flatly, yanking the door open. Or at least, he tried to, but it wouldn't budge. "Damn it, what did you do to the fucking door?"

"I just locked it," Sherlock said. "As any normal person would do to protect their living space."

"When did you even have time to do that, it wasn't locked when I came in!" John said. "I suppose you've hidden the keys, too?"

"Obviously," Sherlock said. "You'll have to stay here."

John groaned irritably. "God, I don't know why I put up with you," he mumbled, moving to the living room and plopping down onto an armchair to read his book. But of course, his book wouldn't open. "What the fuck--" He pulled the book apart as hard as he could, and all that happened was that he ended up tearing the first few pages of the book. "Did you  _glue every single page of my book together_?" 

"Maybe," Sherlock said simply, but he was giggling.

"I swear, I'm going to break your face if there's any more," John said, sighing. He checked his watch and groaned. "It's only eleven?!"

"Mhm. Still thirteen hours to go," Sherlock smirked.

"I'm going upstairs," John scowled, slamming his book down and walking upstairs. Sherlock very quietly followed him a moment later.

John decided to distract himself by writing on his blog about how stupid Sherlock was. He sat down on his desk chair, only to be startled right out of it by the very loud sound of an air horn taped underneath it. He could hear Sherlock laughing from outside. "God _damn_ it Sherlock!"

Sherlock made his appearance, still giggling. "You nearly fell out of your chair!"

"Is there any end to all of this?" John grumbled, sitting down in his armchair, only to trigger a loud, wet noise coming from directly beneath him.

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed, making a face. "How utterly juvenile!"

John lifted himself up a bit and pulled out the whoopee cushion. "Really? This was the cleverest you could come up with?"

"Oh I can come up with plenty cleverer ones but it's still funny."

  
"Right, and you just called  _me_  juvenile," John mumbled, deciding maybe he should either look before he sat or just not sit at all. "I suppose I'll just have to starve all day because you've rigged everything in the house so I can't take a single step without being pranked again?"

"No, I've left the food for you. Go and get it."

"I don't trust you."

"I'll bring it up to you then."

"I don't want you to do that either."

"Then I don't know how to help you," Sherlock shrugged, leaving the room.

John scowled at the doorway where Sherlock had just been. "I suppose I can't even piss because you've rigged something in the loo too!" He shouted.

Huffing, he decided to risk going down to the kitchen, but he would be very careful to avoid any pranks. He went down the stairs, watching every single step he took, and slowly edged toward the kitchen, his eyes darting around everywhere as if he were in some sort of horror movie.  
He stepped foot into the kitchen, and the lights immediately turned off. John sighed.   
“Oh for the love of—”  
A loud, booming deep voice echoed through the room suddenly. “YOU THOUGHT YOU COULD AVOID ME JOHN. YOU CANNOT.”  
“Oh, shut up,” John said, walking over to the refrigerator once his eyes had adjusted to the darkness. He opened it, poured himself a glass of milk, and made himself a sandwich. The food seemed to be normal, as far as he could tell. He sipped his milk, and then immediately spat it out. He didn’t know what it was, but it definitely wasn’t milk. “Jesus Christ,” John mumbled. “Is the water at least normal or are you going to kill me off by dehydration?!” He shouted. He poured out his glass and rinsed it out, filling it with water instead. He studied it for a minute, making sure it looked and smelled right, and then he tasted it very carefully. At first it seemed to be normal, so he took a large swig of it, and then made a face. "Did you--How much salt is in here?!" All he heard was a faint snicker in response.

Mumbling under his breath, John tossed the water into the sink and with a glance at the sandwich, tossed it too. He wasn't going to risk it. He decided to go ahead and check the bathrooms, so that he'd be prepared when he did need one, and he wandered back over to the downstairs bathroom, flicking the light on and studying the room. The worst things he could think of that Sherlock may have done is rig the toilet so it wouldn't flush, or perhaps mess with the plumbing to make toilet water come out of the shower. Both of which would be utterly disgusting, so maybe he'd shower first and then use the toilet. There was a towel hanging there already, so he stuck his hand behind the curtain and turned the faucet on, feeling the water, smelling it, tasting it, even. It was salt water again, so he'd have to be careful not to get it in his eyes, but otherwise it didn't seem too bad to put up with. He stripped off his clothes while he waited for the water to heat up, and then pulled back the curtains all the way to step in. He gave a high-pitched shriek that he was certainly not proud of when he saw an enormous spider sitting on the floor of the tub. It was as big as a tarantula, and that was all John remembered before he dared to take another look at it. It was a tarantula. He groaned, trying to think of how to kill it, especially since Sherlock had locked the damn doors so he couldn't exactly put it outside. Or maybe he just wouldn't shower today. There was always tomorrow, when it wasn't April fucking Fool's Day. 

Sighing, he turned the water off, startling a little when the spider began crawling alarmingly quickly across the tub, and pulled his clothes back on. Only Sherlock. He wasn't even _afraid_ of spiders, not really; he didn't like them, he doubted many people did, but he had never reacted like that before. But again, he had never come across a full grown tarantula relaxing on the floor of his shower, its hairy legs ready to crawl all over him. He shivered at the very thought. Maybe he'd just lie on the couch all day (after checking for whoopee cushions). It'd be boring, but it was hopefully safer than wandering around his own flat. Deciding on this avoidance method, he made his way back to the living room and very cautiously sat down on the couch. It seemed to be normal. He put his feet up so he was lying on the couch. Normal. He stayed there for a few minutes. Normal.

Hopefully it was safe now, but every time he thought it would be safe it wasn't. He lay there on edge for he didn't know how long, and he must have dozed off at some point, because the next thing he knew he had woken up to Sherlock's laughter. He opened his eyes, his expression already a glare, and fixed on Sherlock, who was beside him sitting on the coffee table laughing his guts out.

"What?" John growled. "What did you do to me?" He examined himself immediately, but couldn't find anything wrong, so he looked back up at Sherlock expectantly, narrowing his eyes. "What. Did. You. Do?"

Sherlock managed to reduce his laughter to a constant giggling as he stood up and took John's shoulders, steering him into the bedroom and positioning him in front of the mirror. John's face was covered in marker, now sporting a mustache and a monocle so that he looked like the Monopoly man, and he looked boredly at himself in the mirror for a few seconds before turning back to Sherlock. "This is getting old. These pranks aren't even _good_ anymore."

"Well, they get a reaction out of you, which is all that matters," Sherlock giggled. "Just please John, never grow a real mustache."

John rolled his eyes, storming upstairs to his own bedroom, not even caring anymore, and flopping down onto his bed. It was still wet from the water balloon from that morning. "Oh, god--" He supposed he should have remembered, but either way the water had still seeped unpleasantly into his clothes, also leaving a lovely stain around his groin as if he had wet himself, and he growled in irritation as he stripped down completely, reaching for more clothes to wear. But of course, there weren't any. "SHERLOCK!" John screeched out of pure loathing. Huffing, he pulled his wet boxers back on and thumped downstairs to Sherlock's bedroom, rummaging through his closet and stealing one of his more comfortable looking shirts and some trousers. He went ahead and changed in there, deciding he'd have to put up with wet boxers. He wondered if perhaps Sherlock hadn't done anything to his own room, and that John could steal it. He smirked, shutting the door and locking Sherlock out of his own room, going to the bed and collapsing onto it again, confident that he had outsmarted the plan. He sighed softly, letting his eyes slip shut again, and he drifted off into a peaceful sleep.

Until an hour later, that is.

This time he was awakened by what he had first thought was a cat in heat, but eventually recognized as Sherlock's violin. He gave a loud, exaggerated groan, tired of this. He glanced at the clock, praying he had been able to nap most of the day away. But it was only 1 pm. He groaned again, flopping over and pulling a pillow over his head, shutting his eyes. He knew that violin wasn't going to stop anytime soon. For all he knew, he could be awakened by a fucking gunshot next. Actually, that was quite likely.

He figured that maybe he'd just have to sit here and go deaf for the rest of the day. He was only in his forties, he was too young to die, he thought. Maybe Sherlock's shower was normal. He carefully crept inside the bathroom, checked the shower for tarantulas, checked the water, and it seemed normal, but if he had learned anything, it was that things were never as they seemed.

He stripped again, waited a few minutes for the water to warm up, and then stepped inside, only to shriek again and nearly slip onto the floor. It wasn't a tarantula, it was freezing cold water. He turned the knob as far to the warm side as possible, but to no avail. He sighed, turning off the water, drying off, and pulling his clothes on for the second time that day. Well, personal hygiene wasn't a priority for Sherlock when he was focused on something. He probably should've known better than to trust that Sherlock's shower would be normal. He lumbered back to the bed, sighing. This was the longest day of his life.

It went on and on; prank after prank, from grease on the floor to make him slip to jump scares to to a rain of cockroaches (John had punched Sherlock in the shoulder as hard as he could for that) on his head. But somehow, he made it through the day. Worn out and exhausted, he glanced at the clock, which now read 11:58 pm. Two minutes. Just two minutes and the horror would be over. He was lying on Sherlock's bed again, since obviously when he tried to change the blankets and sheets from his own bed, there were no substitutes. He was curled up on the side, staring at the clock, counting down the seconds, when he heard the door open and shut again. "Please can you just stop," John mumbled. "Two minutes. Just two minutes, Sherlock."

"I only have one more surprise for you," Sherlock said, sitting on the bed. John rolled over and peered at him suspiciously. "What is it now? A slap in the face? A bucket of water in the face? Shaving half my hair off?"

Sherlock smiled. "No. Just this."

And then Sherlock did something that was more surprising and more unexpected than anything John had gone through that day. Sherlock had kissed him. It was soft, gentle; brief, but long enough to be meaningful. When he pulled away, his sharp blue eyes were staring back at John's, a hint of worry and anxiety in his face. "Worst prank of all?"

John looked back at him, surprise taking his voice for a good few moments, before he replied.

"Worst prank ever," he confirmed, and Sherlock's face broke.

"Oh," Sherlock said, swallowing. "I'm sorry, then."

"Worst prank ever. But best surprise ever. Because I sure hope it wasn't just a prank," John said, pulling him in again, and he felt Sherlock's relieved smile against his lips.


End file.
